


FOCS

by nightmareonpaper



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Casual Sex, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Ficlet, Future Fic, Human Sacrifice, Military, Stiles Stilinski is Pushed Out of the Pack, supernatural special ops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28508916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmareonpaper/pseuds/nightmareonpaper
Summary: So it turned out you can’t show up on police reports of a dozen suspicious deaths without raising a few red flags, even as the sheriff’s son. He spent hours answering the FBI’s questions about any strange thing he’d encountered in the last six years, but he didn’t sweat it. He knew the fake stories as well as he knew the real ones these days, and he was able to bullshit his way through with an incredulous laugh and various tangents. When he left, he’d thought that had been it.Or Stiles and Malia leave the pack and join a supernatural covert ops team.
Relationships: Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & Malia Tate, some Stiles/Malia, written for future Sterek but we never get there so...
Comments: 6
Kudos: 96





	FOCS

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to have more but, as it has just been sitting in my files for years with "Five years later" written at the end and no more, I decided to post what it is.
> 
> There are problems with verb tenses but I don't care about editing it. I just wanted to get the world out there. Thought someone might enjoy it or even expand on it.
> 
> This was going to be a Sterek fic but it obviously never got that far. I indulged in a little casual Stalia because I love them so that's what you'll see here.
> 
> FOCS stands for Force of Civilian Supernaturals. Could be Federal Office of Creature Security too though. Can't remember deciding.

“Are you kidding me?!”

His words seemed to echo in the great cavern of Derek’s loft. Everyone else had quieted and turned to look as soon as the first loud squeaky syllable left Stiles’ mouth.

Tensions were high in the room—even Boyd had spoken up and told Stiles to leave it. His arms felt like stiff boards hanging off his torso as he tried to keep his hands from tearing his own hair out of his head.

It was simple math. One person sacrifices their life in an ancient ritual or this… god, for lack of a better word, would continue picking through the population of Beacon Hills. One is less than many, right? That’d appease the thing for 12 months and they’d have time to figure out how to take it down permanently before it started killing again. Save lives _and_ buy time, what was so difficult about that?

_We don’t sacrifice human lives, Stiles._

_wE Don’t saCRificE HuMAn lIVeS, sTIleS._

Someone was next on this guy’s list, so _if_ the pack didn’t stop the god before he got there… if the god killed whoever it was anyways and the pack couldn’t stop it… the ritual would be a good back up. Or, you know, maybe they’d stop the god before it ever came and some random would think Stiles was a crazy drugged-out teen—he could live with that. No harm, no foul.

But, no.

_It’s dangerous._

_It’s a waste of time._

_You couldn’t even do it._

_It’s murder._

Psh.

Stiles was pretty sure that the target would be on board with the plan if they knew what was coming. _He_ would, after all.

Murder… sometimes his friends were just so fucking—

“Stiles, you need to leave.”

_What._

Apparently his eyes expressed his bewildered rage perfectly, because Scott stepped back with his hands up. Stiles just rolled his eyes. Dramatic, much?

“You’re tired, you’re frustrated, you need a break.”

“I do not—“

“ _We_ need a break.”

And what the flying fuck was that supposed to mean?

Scott took advantage of his shock and pulled him to the side. Not enough for privacy, but at least the illusion of it. “You’re pushing too hard. No one can think about anything else—“

“So let me go do this on my own. It can’t hurt. Then you guys can stay and—“

“No. Stiles… you’re worrying me. I can’t focus on anything but what _you_ might do if I don’t keep an eye on you. I can’t keep doing this.”

“What _I_ might do? What do you think I’m gonna have a psychotic break and go on a murder spree?” He didn’t like that look in Scott’s eyes. Fuck it, on second thought, “Too late!” Demonic possession and psychotic break were pretty much the same thing right?

Scott, ever the diplomat, closed his eyes and took a deep breath to keep his anger in check. He was good at it, Stiles would begrudge him that, but he still sometimes missed his dopey best bud of yesteryear.

“We just need space, Stiles. We’ll take some time to cool down, regroup in the morning.”

Stiles was done. Arguing about this wasn’t helping any of them, that was for sure. He’d make it work. He may not be able to take home Deaton’s book with the ritual in it, but he had a fairly good visual memory—he’d do his best. If something went wrong, well, that’ll teach them not to send him away next time.

“Fine. Fine. I’m going.”

He turned to the door, right hand already in his jeans pocket, keys clenched in his fist.

“Text when you’re safe.” He acknowledged the request with a snort—Scott could read what he wanted into that. Without a glance back to the pack watching him go, he strode out of the loft and went home.

* * *

The barracks were hard and cold. The slightest cough reverberated throughout the entire room. Most of the guys learned to sleep right through it after the first week, but it was enough to jolt Stiles awake in the middle of the night. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to sleep deeply any more. After all he’d seen, a short light alert night’s sleep was more relaxing than a long night tossing and turning.

So he didn’t bother sitting up, merely moved to lay flat on his back and prop a hand behind his head. Stiles enjoyed moments like these—he never felt more at peace. He smiled then because that was pretty sad, but the fact was he found comfort in the thick concrete walls, the barred windows, the quiet order. Every man around him knew how to fight and draw their weapon quickly. Every man there knew how to work as a team and take on anything that came at him. There was nowhere he felt safer.

The moonlight shining through the windows illuminated the room just enough for Stiles to see the dark tendrils of his tattoos stretching down to his wrist. Just a peek of it tended to unnerve people, even stereotypical army buddies with skulls, or crucified Jesus, or naked ladies displayed on their own bodies’. If Stiles were honest, he’d admit it disturbs him a bit as well—but that had been the purpose, after all. A reminder of what he would always be fighting.

There was nothing graphic about his sleeve, nothing inappropriate. The fox’s snarl was meant to be a bit scary, but he was hardly the first person with a tattoo like that. No, it was something about the design, the colors. It was how the tattoo seemed to have crawled onto his arm and latched on like a parasite. It was the constant threat it seemed to exude, as if at any moment it could spread and devour Stiles entirely.

He didn’t ever want to forget that fear.

On their morning run a mere hour later, Malia caught up to him.

“Hey Sketch, looking well-rested.”

She wasn’t kidding. “Yeah, Cooper’s in the infirmary. Without his snoring I sleep like a baby,” Stiles smirked.

Malia hip-checked him with a strength that would have caused a nasty fall a year ago. Now he just stumbled to the side. “You ready to run with the big boys next week?,” She asked.

Malia had stuck by him when everything else went to shit. He felt guilty sometimes—as if he’d stolen her away from the pack—but she always reminded him _‘Coyotes aren’t pack animals, Stiles.’_ Still, she was loyal to him, he knew it through and through.

It was a strange relationship. They weren’t together although they had felt free to have sex whenever they wanted. Friends wasn’t a sufficient description either; and sister was highly inappropriate. Stiles usually settled for something like partners, but he had realized not too long ago that best word to describe them was one Malia would never want to hear—pack. A fairly pathetic two-man coyote-human pack, but a pack nonetheless. Each was an appendage of the other.

So Stiles didn’t even hesitate, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”

* * *

The ‘big boys’ Malia was talking about? The eight other recruits for a supernatural covert ops force. All somehow supernatural, with Stiles as the token human (again).

It started when Stiles returned to Berkeley for his junior year and a couple FBI agents showed up at his door to take him in for questioning. He went quietly—there was no reason to think they suspected him of anything. Anyways, Malia was inside listening to every word. She had tagged along with him when he left Beacon Hills, apparently just as ready to get out of there as he was. The murderous god was gone, but the pack’s betrayed glares weren’t any better.

So it turned out you can’t show up on police reports of a dozen suspicious deaths without raising a few red flags, even as the sheriff’s son. He spent hours answering the FBI’s questions about any strange thing he’d encountered in the last six years, but he didn’t sweat it. He knew the fake stories as well as he knew the real ones these days, and he was able to bullshit his way through with an incredulous laugh and various tangents. When he left, he’d thought that had been it.

Until a week later when both he and Malia were yanked into a van as they were walking back from lunch. Malia had made friends with some hardcore hippies and decided to stay around—and stay in Stiles’ twin bunk in the dorms. (It wasn’t so bad; her presence kept the loneliness at bay while he wasn’t talking to Scott.)

Turned out Malia had snuck in to save Stiles from the ‘scary’ interrogation and gotten herself on their radar as well. Neither could say they were truly upset about it though. Joining FOCS was an easy decision.

He’d told his dad he was transferring to George Washington University in D.C. to study while interning with the F.B.I.—it was close enough to the truth. Malia didn’t have anyone to make up a story for.

_“They’re gonna think you’re moving with me.”_

_“Okay.”_

_“Like… together.”_

_“We are.”_

_“But_ **_together_ ** _.”_

_“Oh… Who cares?”_

They were forced to go through basic (human) training before joining the team. Which was good because Stiles had never really focused on his physical defenses in recent years. He was more the brains of the operation… or the gut. He was happy to suffer alongside fellow humans instead of supernatural beings who wouldn’t even break a sweat. At least he got enjoyment out of watching Malia kick ass—she’d have been top of the class if she’d given a shit about chain of command.

When they’d finally met the team, Stiles thanked both the good and the evil gods that he’d gotten that training in basic because here he was, once again, the token human.

They were all suspicious of each other that day. He and Malia stuck together and a (smoking-hot) female alpha werewolf stood between her two betas. But the rest kept to themselves. The witch looked to be younger than even him. She also looked like more of a black hat hacker than the stereotypical hippie-dippy Wiccan. There was a fae of unspecified classification who looked suspiciously like The Rock. Stiles made an effort to stay out of his way.

There was a nice, normal dude Stiles thought he could probably befriend, but the guy disappeared every time he tried. Literally.

The other guy, Stiles couldn’t quite figure out—not what he did or even who he was. His habits and mannerisms and ticks constantly changed from jumpy to aggressive to observant to scared. He never spoke much, which didn’t help things.

And finally there was—

“Kira!” Malia was bursting with excitement Stiles hadn’t seen from her in quite some time. He had no idea they’d been close.

“Malia… Stiles… What are you doing here?” Malia’s so-called hug choked the words out of her.

Malia furrowed her brow and held her at arm’s length, “I’m guessing the same thing you are.” The _duh_ went unspoken.

“The pack? Scott? Are they here too—?”

“They’re fine. Back home,” Stiles finally spoke up, his voice too monotone to provide real assurance.

But Malia had it handled, “No, really they are fine. Just assholes. I mean we totally saved a bunch of lives and they’re all like, no—“

“Malia.” Stiles cut her off. She just rolled her eyes.

“Stiles doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“Oh.” Kira looked disappointed. _In Stiles._

Whatever.

Supernatural bootcamp required a general level of physical fitness in line with basic training, but their exercises were geared towards developing new tactical strategies that utilized their unique talents to the team’s best advantage. Stiles was back in his comfort zone.

Just like the pack, the ragtag team doubted him, rolled their eyes when he told them his plans, even did the exact opposite of what he said in the end. It only took them a few days to learn they were better when they listened to him.

 _Duh_.

Kira fell right back in with them, but Stiles figured it was simply the appeal of familiarity. He didn’t share his story, but he figured she probably grilled Malia for more info about Scott and everyone. And he knew Malia wasn’t one to keep her mouth shut when she wasn’t given a good reason why.

Still, Kira stood at his side through it all. Literally. The two girls seemed to always line up on either side of him, just a step behind him like he was their— no, that was stupid.

When it came getting to know the team, Kira was a godsend. Neither Stiles nor Malia were exactly easy to get along with at first, so Kira acted as a sort of buffer for their rough edges. She drew out the invisible kid, Cory, with her Disney princess smile. Stiles thought the guy had a bit of a crush on her until he caught Cory staring at his ass. That embarrassment set them back about a week in Stiles’ attempt to befriend him, but he was patient.

Rock-man fae was also drawn to Kira’s sweet disposition. He doted on her, plucking a strand of hair out of his long braid and transforming it into her favorite flower. He didn’t get along well with the shifters, but he stopped playing pranks on them once Malia started calling him Felix instead of “The Rock.”

The wolves _loved_ Malia. Almost enough to make Stiles jealous, until Malia gave him a blow job in the bathroom where everyone could hear. “Pull it together, Stilinski,” she’d drawled as she left him with his pants still unzipped. He was pretty confused about what _any_ of that situation meant.

Stiles was able to get Priscilla, the witch, to socialize by reeling her in with snarky comments she couldn’t resist responding to. She seemed to want to dislike them all, but Malia’s no-bullshit attitude got her respect.

Thomas was a bit more difficult, but they all figured they’d warm up to him eventually. Hopefully.

They spent a year together, doing nothing but training. Their differences became their greatest strengths. By the time Christmas rolled around, they were approved for their first mission after the start of the new year.

* * *

The airport felt strangely human as he waited for his flight, making Stiles aware of just how much everything had changed. He didn’t particularly want to go back to Beacon Hills for Christmas, but he had no idea when he would next have the opportunity so he made the adult decision to tough it out for his dad.

Malia had gone to New York with Kira, which sucked but was safer for everyone involved.

His dad picked him up on the curb and all but skipped out of his cruiser to pull Stiles in for a hug. For a moment, Stiles almost felt like a normal person again. Almost.

“Hey bud,” his father chimed with a large grin. “Good to see you.”

“You too, dad.”

“Well, we’ve got a drive ahead of us so… tell me all about D.C.”

Stiles was literally a professional bullshitter now, so he got through the ride without a hitch.

* * *

Stiles could admit that he became a bit of a hermit once they got home. He wasn’t in the mood to run into anyone he knew at the grocery store or the pharmacy. But the isolation took its toll after a couple days so he called an Uber to take him across town to Jungle. It wasn’t like the pack would have a reason to hang around a gay club (unless someone was killing people again) so he figured he’d be safe.

If any of the pack was among the crowd of people at the club, Stiles wouldn’t have known. He was going against all his training by refusing to look closer—he didn’t want to know.

The music was nothing special but it felt good to be around people again. He ordered his whiskey neat, downed one and asked for another. Strangely enough, the alcohol didn’t magically make him happy.

He turned against the bar to survey the room, not looking for trouble so much as looking for something to do. Or someone. Either/Or. Unfortunately, his brain seemed hardwired to identify that which didn’t belong and his gaze stopped on the look of hunger on a man’s face that was far from human. The guy looked like he wanted to eat up one of these twinks and not in a sexy way. And then the guy was looking at him.

Stiles wanted to roll his eyes, because _of course_ , but instead he quirked a naive smile back at his target. Because apparently that was his idea of fun these days.

When Stiles turned back to the bar, he could feel the man hovering over his shoulder. “Looking for someone?”

“Not anymore,” Stiles smirked.

“Can I buy you another drink?” Stiles finished off his second and nodded. With nothing but a pointed hand gesture from the creep, the bartender poured him another.

Under his watchful eye, Stiles decided to do away with the subtlety and downed the drink in one swallow. “Let’s get out of here.”

But as he let the guy drag him through the crowd to the doors, another hand grabbed his arm.

“Stiles!”

Motherfucker.

“Derek, nice to see you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving.” He turned to do just that but Derek’s grip refused to loosen. Stiles was about ready to kick his ass in the middle of the dance floor.

“You can’t.” Derek was staring at the guy holding Stiles hand like he was a demon from hell.

Oh… maybe he was. Stiles could take care of that, no problem.

The demon(maybe) butt into their conversation, “I think he can do whatever he wants.”

“See, Derek, I found a man who _respects_ me. I don’t need you anymore.”

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed at that, like two big wiggling caterpillars.

“Don’t make me hurt you, Derek.”

Something in his eyes seemed to shock Derek into letting him go for a mere second and Stiles got out of there before he could stop them.

* * *

He should have known they wouldn’t leave it there. Two hours later he arrived back at his dad’s house sore and tired. The guy had, in fact, been a demon. He put up a bit of a fight but nothing Stiles couldn’t handle. Still, it was three A.M. and Stiles was practically dreaming of his bed as he approached the door.

Until Scott burst out of the house barking his name. “Stiles, what the fuck, man? We’ve been looking everywhere for you! That guy— Derek saw you and—“

“Taken care of,” Stiles slurred, tired. Scott seemed confused.

“What do you mean?”

“Demon down. Evil eradicated. Fucker fried. Baddies banged.” Scott needed to get out of the way before Stiles fell asleep on the porch. “No, hold on. I don’t like that last one.”

“What? You knew?”

“What, do you think I’m stupid? No, no, no, wait. Did you think I was actually _attracted_ to that guy?”

“What—“

“Don’t worry about it, Scotty. It’s best for your delicate moral code that you don’t know the details. Just, consider him out of play. Forever.”

“You killed him?”

“Well, yeah. He was trying to kill me first.”

“But you knew he would.”

“Yeah. So?”

Silence fell between them.

“Dammit, Stiles,” Scott sighed, “What are you doing back?”

“It’s just for Christmas, then I’ll be out of your hair for good.”

“That’s _not_ what I meant.”

“Well, that’s what _I_ meant.”

Scott scuffed his shoes against the cement. “It’s customary to go through the local Alpha for things like this…”

“Well, Scott, I didn’t have time to ask permission before he pulled a knife on me.”

“You were practically hunting him.”

“Oh please. Right place, right time.”

“No. Wrong place. Wrong time. We’d been waiting all week to get him where we knew he’d be—“

“Sorry I messed it all up for you then.”

“You didn’t—,” he was practically pulling out his hair, “This is why things got so bad. You’re not a team player. You never listened.”

And that was just— “ _I_ never listened? No, no, no. I listened to hours and hours of hemming and hawing that wasted time before we _inevitably_ ended up back at my plan. _You_ didn’t listen, buddy. _You_ didn’t trust that I knew what I was doing, that my _only_ goal was to protect the pack.”

Stiles could see the slight bulge of fangs behind Scott’s lips.

“Derek was right… You are a self-righteous little shit.”

“Ha!” The sound was sharp and cold as Stiles belted it out. “That’s rich coming from you.”

The glaring contest that followed broke personal records, continuing until Stiles’ human body felt the chill of the night air. He turned for the steps without hesitation.

“Don’t get involved in anything else, Stiles.” Stiles began to snort out a laugh, but Scott continued, “This is my territory. You have business here you go through me. Don’t screw up everything we’ve built just because you weren’t a part of it.”

Stiles paused, just to take in the fact that his supposed _best friend_ was saying these things to him. Without turning back, he hummed and nodded. “Sure, Scottie, whatever you say.”

He could feel the wolf standing his ground, watching Stiles’ every move as he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

“Oh, hey,” Stiles turned to send one last innocent look through the small gap of the door, “I’ll tell Kira you said hi.”

Stiles was fairly certain he heard a growl hidden by the heavy slamming of the front door. He could only smirk.


End file.
